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Cats, rats and fleas

We're on the move again. The Amazon didn't live up to expectations so we're heading for the coast. Sandy beaches, penguins and the clear blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Not sure if that means we can go swimming or what but we'll soon find out.The return journey from Puerto Bermúdez was better than the hin Fahrt. No foul-smelling fowl, and the driver mercifully skipped over all the impaled goat arcade tunes. Nothing too exciting to report there.We spent €100 on our Amazon sojourn, all in, so now we really need to be careful. Last night we stayed at the Hotel Chanchamayo in San Ramón, highly recommended in our guide book for "hot showers and cable TVs in the rooms". It had neither, but €3.50 said it was good enough for a night.Once we threw the bags down we noticed the room smelled like a zoo. The bed steeply inclined towards the middle, making for an alpine sleep. The room itself was filthy, but what the hell, it was just for one night...Furious scurrying and yowling from above woke us up in the middle of the night. "¡¿What the fuck is that?!" More screeching. Then a huge crash as something heavy fell over, either in the room next door or in the roof above. More yowling. "It's cats fighting." I hoped it was cats fighting. "Ratten," Jenny replied, confirming the worst. ¡Rats! Jaysus, what next? Debris from the ceiling fell onto my face as the scurrying continued above. At least I hoped it was debris. It felt suspiciously like a flea.My whole body itched as I could feel little fuckers biking, sucking, gnawing. Christ, I was being eaten alive! Meanwhile the commotion continued above. Better fleas than rats I suppose. I went back asleep, clinging to the sides to stop rolling into the centre."Now we know what the stink is," Jenny said cheerfully in the morning. "It's rats piss." Hmmm. Good to have that little mystery cleared up. At least now we now what smells to keep a sniff out for in future.

Spudnik Ó Fathaigh has called Berlin home since St. Patrick’s Day 2008, when he arrived doe-eyed and thirsty after a ferry from Ireland and long drive through France. The doe-eyes have since been surpassed by those of his son, as doe-eyed as they come, but the thirst is yet to be cured.
Three stolen bikes, innumerable bike-theft attempts, eight mobile phones and countless (and counting) Sternis later, der Irische Berliner – as he’s also known – spends his time poking his nose where noses aren't welcome and bestowing the benefits of his foul language and gutter speak on the locals.
Of course, he’s a local now too. When not working on amusing alliteration combinations or ignoring Betreten Verboten signs, Spudnik rants, rages and reports to the best of his frightening ability.